


Wonderful World of Joy Land

by winethroughwater



Series: Who Even is Mitski? [1]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Sibling Incest, Spellcest Prompt Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 15:06:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19770742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winethroughwater/pseuds/winethroughwater
Summary: Her house is full.  Her church is new.  Zelda dreams.





	Wonderful World of Joy Land

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lalalyds2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalalyds2/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Garden of Bitter Fruit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17384255) by [lalalyds2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalalyds2/pseuds/lalalyds2). 



Every time she turns her back, tiptoes soft and bare--an avalanche of porcelain faces and sun-faded fabrics follows.

She tries it backwards with eyes sharp. 

She _will_ see who starts it. She _will_ catch the culprit in the act.

She catches her shin on Rocking Horse's rail instead and blinks in pain.

Her eyes open to find two already in motion.

There are simply more dolls than will fit on the shelf.

She props a heavy arm around another’s shoulder, shoves hands between cotton covered knees. 

She can’t care that lace is rumpled and will crease by morning, that a shoe is lost and a white lump of should-be-foot is exposed. (Maybe she lost her toes to the cold.)

They are sitting so nicely--glass eyes fixed straight ahead as long as hers are the same.

* * *

She looks down the table from her seat at the head. 

They should have spoken of family planning, taken measures. 

But how they had fought-- _Who chooses Moscow in the winter?_ \--and how quickly Hilda’s bruised feelings healed as each one opened to another, smaller and smaller. 

How Hilda’s mouth had warmed her until there were a baker’s dozen, intricate and bright, each one different than the one before.

She squints to see Hilda on the horizon.

They crowd the table now as they had crowded their mantle then.

The tallest are sturdy to her own left and right.

The smallest wobble precarious in chairs next to Hilda.

She always was the little mother, her sister.

* * *

She should be grateful--this doughy thing they call her sister--not fussing and squirming.

Sisters skip and dance until they’re dizzy.

Sisters whisper secrets and outnumber brothers.

Her eyes haven’t even decided what color they want to be yet. (Zelda hopes mirror-blue but sees flecks of brother-brown.)

“Hush, Hildie. This will be better.”

A heavy head, peach-fuzz soft, lolls to the side. 

_She_ smells like mother’s perfume and souring milk. 

_Oldest_ sisters know best _\--she_ knows best, even if the dress pinches so tight around the neck that she had to squeeze a finger under and peak to make sure the witch’s mark hadn’t been rubbed right off. 

(To be useless _and_ a mortal? She had sighed to see it still there, had received in turn a bubble of spit, popping against the back of her hand.)

Dolly lays useless too--and naked now, stripped of her perfect Parisian fashion. 

It _would_ fit if only not for this arm.

Tug and twist.

Neat seams stretch, test careful work--Father had spared no expense.

Hilda wails.

The limb snaps off.

She needs only to work it backwards through the cuff of the sleeve to reattach it after.

Simple work.

“Zelda.”

Mother’s face stretches too far towards laughter to be angry. 

* * *

“Zelda.”

Hilda’s light flicks on. 

Eyes blink sleepy and fix on hers. 

They are blue tonight.

Dolly-perfect mouth curls at one corner, not a happy stroke of the artist’s brush.

A high priestess newly minted flicks the corner of her quilt in invocation. 

A sister shakes her head and says, “Your bed seems awfully crowded, sister. Why don’t you come to mine?”

**Author's Note:**

> So I hoped I would get this one and then I got this one and . . . 
> 
> My face goes Lemon.
> 
> Because how do I write something to follow a work as perfect as "A Garden of Bitter Fruit"? 
> 
> So I decided to take a few of the qualities that I love most about lalalyds2's story/myth/fable/crazy-fruit poem and write a short piece inspired by each.
> 
> This one is my weird little ode to its dream-like nature. And dolls.


End file.
